Our Blueprints
by Nostalgian
Summary: Minvade20.24: An overlong study of the issues between America, England, who tops, why, and what it would mean anyway.


All works belong to their respective owners.

**Author's Note:** De-anon from Minvasion.

And this one took me forever to write, but gosh I'm pleased I wrote it. The prompt was topping issues, and I think USUK could probably be the poster-pair for that kind of trouble given the history. There have been some amazing fictions written about this issue for USUK, and I wanted to write my own.

However, before we begin, this thing is mostly fluff, lots of fluff, but at heart it is essentially comfort and changing opinions about sex for someone who has only ever experienced non-consensual relations in the past (both giving and receiving). This stems from my headcanon that in the early days of Europe, a common way to demonstrate invasion or similar things was pretty much rape, or at least some very rough dubious-consent sex.

So there's some mood whiplash.

It is mostly fluff, but there's definitely some parts that might disturb or upset.

As a side note, this story does not encapsulate my opinions about sex, just what I think America might see sex as. I agree with some, but it's not nearly close to all. So yeah. Just putting that out there haha. I guess it's a big long meta-y about the uke-seme debate though?

Uh, what else? Oh yeah, this has smut too. It's sorta' revolves around it in a way. I wouldn't call it porn without plot though. It's primarily a character... study... thing?

...I rather like :3

* * *

_**Our Blueprints.**_

* * *

England twirled the teaspoon idly about his cup, watching the foggy tea leaves swirl to the top of the cup. It wasn't a very good brew, and he hadn't used an infuser; just water dumped over the leaves. Dropping the spoon against the side of the cup with a clink, he felt rather than saw America drop into the chair across from him. It was so unbelievably awkward, England could hardly breathe. If he had been Japan he might well have been catatonic, as it was, he was simply paralyzed, and held his breath, letting it out in a shallow circular hum, and in mindlessly transparent swallow. America, however, seemed to be perfectly unaware of the cold air, and prickle on England's spine.

"Let's talk."

England looked at America, green eyes a fragile film of algae over a luke-warm, and mindlessly shallow expression. Deliberately. Keeping America quite firmly at bay. America could clearly sense the atmosphere, the cautious look in those blue eyes confirmed it, but the determined set of his shoulders said he was ignoring it.

"About what?" England didn't settle on passive-aggressive; no he naturally fell over it in his haste to spit something out.

"Art," America scowled. "Don't you fucking dare."

"Don't I dare do what?" England gritted his teeth, focusing again on the placid colour of the tea, drowning his gaze there instead of America's furious eyes. "Exactly?"

"Blow me off like that; I hate it." America knotted his fingers into fists, and placed them on the table in front of him, unclenching them and splaying them palm-downwards. "We need to talk."

"If you hate me I don't see what we need t-" America stood up, table squawking with his misplaced strength.

"England," America was all but roaring now. "Don't you give me this crap!" America bit his lip, twitching in an almost ridiculous manner. Finally he shut his eyes, and rapped his finger on his brow, glasses pushed so hard up his nose it probably hurt him. "Arthur," America tried again, calmer, sitting down. "I said I hated it when you avoid me, not that I hate you." He waited for England to focus completely on his eyes, but England seemed to be constantly looking at his nose, or mouth, forehead, even nantucket for a few uneasy breaths. "Okay, We don't need to talk, but I still wanna."

"I don't see what there is to talk about." England scowled, staring once more at the tea. "You've been pretty clear about where you stand." America gave him a puzzled look, which England heard more than saw. "Fucking hell, Alfred," England swore. "Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"That would be nice." America almost grinned, but shoveled the smile off his face sharply when England looked up with a razor-edge glare.

"I shouldn't have to bloody tell you at all, America." England gave his spoon an idle twirl, eyes still on America's. "You should know these-"

"Oh bullshit," America burst out. "I should, what, read your mind? Or I should leave you alone?" He scoffed. "No way, babe," He laced the word with almost as much affection as irony. "No way. This is what communication is about."

"Maybe I don't want to communicate." England bared his teeth furiously.

"Well, maybe," America paused, mildly taken aback. "But if this is going to work yanno, we have to be able to communicate with each other."

"Maybe I don't want this to work!"

America's eyes narrowed, a very blatant insecurity appearing in them, disguised with an automatic, protective anger. "Well I do." He finally managed, entire body rigid. "I have never said you shouldn't be the one calling the shots," He paused. "Occasionally."

"So what was the fucking revolution?" England screamed it out like a wounded cat. "Some kind of joke? Some kind of-" England crouched over the table, head held clumsily in his hands and simply swore to himself, shaking. Was England sobbing? America bit the inside of his cheek - you can bet sweet freedom and liberty he was. It was painfully clear in the next sentence England fought out, wrestling with each syllable and still being perfectly obvious he was crying. "You made it obscenely clear I am not to control you."

America waited for the shake of England's shoulders, slight tremor to fade into a pattern, before making a tiny cough for England's attention. There was no sign England had heard him. "Arthur," America could feel his voice thin with an exhausted emotion - somewhere between disappointment, terror and unhappiness. "Is that what..." How was he meant to phrase this exactly? "Uhm." Well, no way out but through sometimes. "Penetration is to you?"

England reared back, head out of his hands to gawk at America haplessly. Eyes still a stinging red colour, and a few tears balled up in the corners of those green eyes like a pair of fists. His mouth hung open, worked for a few moments, and the tiniest of objections slipped out. "T-that is..."

"I know," America reached forward and brushed the tears away, brushing the startled expression away and revealing an affronted one.

"You can't ask that sort of thing, America, it's unbelievably invasive!"

America smiled with an almost sadness, almost gentleness, sweet and willing. "I know about the six-string on your hip, and the tiny spot on your ankle that makes you laugh which apparently is called Minehead." The smile deepened, fading at the corners with something that looked uncommonly like naked love. "And the fact you'll sleep in until 3pm if you don't have something to do, I brush my teeth at the same sink as you in the morning," Since when was a toothbrush some mark of intimacy? Yet, there was an uncanny thrill that surged through England when America said it. Perhaps there was some domestic intimacy there. "Isn't it a bit late to worry about me being invasive?"

The silence spilt between them like too-cold tea, and America thumbed a fresh wave of tears England hadn't even noticed. "Christ, you're crying a lot, dude." America breathed, refinding his place. "England, is that what being...ah," America gave an airless laugh, as though he was feeling light-headed. Dispelling his natural awkwardness. "Penetrated is to you? Being... controlled?" England didn't reply. America sucked in a tightened gulp of air. "Fuck, Artie." America pulled his hands back, and shielded his face in case England saw the sheer pain he could feel etching itself onto his features.

"I can't control you." England mumbled. "I tried once." America felt another pinprick of pressure his chest, but waited. "I don't know how I can survive you leaving me again." England hunched his shoulders slightly. "If it takes..."

His voice fell quiet, tumbling into it slowly.

"If it takes what, England?"

England fell back into the safety net of his silence. Maybe America would misunderstand enough, become angry and leave; that would be easier.

"England, I have never once, ever, ever thought even thought of dominating you." America said it as firmly as he could. "Not in the way you're thinking; that's not what..." He cast about for any other word, but found none. "Making love is, and uhm," America flushed a deep crimson. "When I make love to you, we're on equal terms, at least for my part."

"There's no such thing as equal terms." England said tiredly. "That's idealistic." America sighed, and it sounded more than a little heartbroken.

"What makes you say that?"

"One uses the other for pleasure." It sounded more than a little rote-learnt. Like some justification for injustices past. "Inevitably when one partakes, someone will take more than the other. One gives more than the other." England pulled in a heavy breath. "When you take me under you, you dominate me."

America couldn't hide his stunned hurt, and barely had the sense to turn his face away, regathering his wits. He looked back and stared at England, emotions working over his face.

"You should have told me." America stood up after a few minutes of just staring at England like he was some tragic, touching piece of artwork, feeling all over America's emotions in little streaks of paint. America stepped round to England's side, brushing a hand on England's shoulder. England froze, but did not flinch away. "When I take you under me," America added. "I am still giving you me." He pulled his hand away, walking past. "I need a breather, and you look like you do too." England twisted slightly, face flushed as though he'd run a marathon, and found America with the same fatigued brightness round his eyes. Found himself nodding.

They didn't speak of the matter for several weeks, nor did they encroach into intimacy. America shied away from England's areas, using the guest bathroom, and spending more time at the American embassy than he would normally. This division of territory only confirming England's opinion that a relationship was concerned with a battle of dominance. America preferred to see it as giving England space he needed, as well as the comfort of familiarity - it would do no good to make England feel cornered in his own house. England saw it only as America granting control to him. The matter sat between them, as physical as an ocean. Precisely twenty days late, they refound the matter, however, after dinner. England, this time, initiating;

It had taken several weeks for England to find the composure and frankly, courage to once more breach the subject. He'd expected America to come to him over it, but each day the conversation remained light, and full of very easy questions, and a very difficult distance. Within a week, England was delirious for America's tight, cloying personality to once more be in his space, and tried to coax America into further discussion, or at least his bedroom. It wasn't a matter of desire; it was a matter of loneliness and insecurity. Of connection, missing it, worrying for it. But he was a fool to expect America to notice his overtures. Even when England had sat himself in America's lap one evening, America's hand on his hip had been more for balance than touch. Still America didn't respond to either England's signals that he was okay with talking, nor the very obvious signals that even if they weren't going to settle the matter, that was no reason to walk around their relationship like it was made of eggshells, or maybe something ugly. Therefore, annoyed, agitated, lack of confidence at a fever pitch, England decided he would start the conversation.

"Sex is a battle for dominance." England stated, dropping to the couch beside America, who pulled his legs back to allow England more space.

America almost smiled.

He'd been waiting for England to start it this time; it was important England restarted the discussion. If only England hadn't been so furious when he'd begun it. The clipped statement made the mood England wanted very clear; anger, hot, furious, was there sexual frustration in England's voice? A little. Mostly England was lashing out.

"It can be." America agreed. "But we're in a relationship, so the sex is different."

England scoffed; "T'is not."

America ignored England, something he had a great talent for. He chased down - in his opinion - the whole of the matter instead. "I'm okay with you topping me," Paused. "Because it's not about somebody being in charge," America's feet shifted to rest slightly on England, as America stretched ever so gently. "It's about whose going to stick it in where that time."

"It's not as simple as that."

"No, I get that now," America leaned his head back on the armrest and puffed out a sigh. "It's different for you." America peeked at England, and then deliberately leveled out something he'd already been enforcing. "We're not screwing until one of us doesn't have to lose to do so."

"Somebody has to lose!" England protested, pouncing on America, frustrated, angry and scared. America was already building distance between them, leaving him in little increments. "Somebody has to win, somebody has to lose, that's how it works when you compromise. What is a relationship except compromising?"

Something that looked like disgust flitted onto America's face, and unable to help himself he threw the first verbal punch. "That's horrible."

"But it's true," England dug his fingers into America's shirt, trying to pin him to the couch in tightened hands. "I want you," It was pulled out of England with an agonizing tactlessness and honesty. "I'll lose every time, if you want, you're-"

"I don't want that." America shoved England off him, and rolled off the couch, landing on the floor with a militaristic grace. Standing up, America turned and leaned down, clinking their forehead's together like wine glasses. England froze. Blue eyes fluttered shut, America's brow furrowing against England as he tried to word it as gently as possible. "I don't want one of us having to lose so we can be together, physically or otherwise." America's eyes opened to terror in England's. "A relationship is not an appeasement plan, or a treaty; it's a partnership."

America dropped quietly to his knees, cupping England's face. "Oh sweetie," America tipped his head up to kiss England's forehead, an overwhelming weight clawing through him. "It's just not top or bottom, or face to face, or- sex is so misleading, like positions and stuff. It's not face-to-face, it's side by side." America rubbed at England's cheeks with his thumbpads. "When we fight it's not about who's right or wrong, it's about little improvements and mending mutual holes, it has to be mutual." America gulped, a knot of tears physically shifting up his body, and he forced it down. "I'm not- we make love. We. Build it. Together. For us."

England shuddered in America's hands. "Please don't leave." Almost a moan.

"I'm here, I'm here," America hummed it, pressing his cheek against England's. "Honey, I'm here, see?" America gripped England's hand in his own, and England gave a momentary laugh, before the noise ended in a terminated sob.

"I don't want you controlling me, but making love isn't about either of us being controlled." Okay, America gave up, and let the tears just do whatever it was they wanted. Slide clumsily down his cheeks apparently. He gave a sniffle. America gave a shiver, waiting for the silly tears to subside, and found England thumbing them away himself.

"I... don't see it that way." England mumbled, green eyes rounded.

"I know that now." America shifted to kneel comfortably on the ground, leaning his head into England's lap. "So we're gonna take a break from the bedroom," America glanced up at those unsure eyes, and smiled as winningly as he could. "It's not because I don't want you."

"Isn't it?" England hummed, stroking America's hair rhythmically.

"If I didn't want you I'd just leave."

"That's what..." England stopped, and trailed off. Dread creeping through him. "You could leave... whenever." America twisted about to lean back into England's lap, his own hand ruffling through England's fringe. "Whenever you want to. You don't pull your punches."

"So you can know, as long as I'm here," America's smile tilted reassuringly, and he brushed at England's cheek with the backs of his knuckles. The gesture a surprisingly tender one, and America coloured, but did not retreat. "I wanna be here." The hitch of England's breath. "You never hold me against my will."

England was scraping at America, almost scratching at his shirt, as he tried to pull America onto the couch next to him. Obliging, America moved to the far comfier position of lying his head in England's lap whilst be splayed open on the couch, and with a toothy yawn, settled down to nap. "I love you." The sound was muffled by the yawn and bright teeth, and England flinched.

They let the matter wait, pushed to the back-corners and storage rooms of the relationship. At first, the concept of America staying willingly seemed puzzling, and particular, but not crippling and powerful to England's mind, however, when America had to leave for work, England mulled over it.

England hated airport goodbyes; America just wanted to stay with him until the last possible minute. Still, England made his official farewell in the comfort of his own home.

It came out as a jagged, "You're leaving."

America considered the matter.

"I'll take you with me then." He decided, reaching for England with an easy smile. England jumped back about four paces, scowling and growling at America.

"I've got work to do! Not everyone is quite as free as you are!"

"If I were completely free, then I'd stay here with you like I want." America looked miserable, then lit up. "I'll phone and e-mail and text you all the time, though, so you know I'm still with you, yeah?" America fished his phone out and began tapping at it instantly, and not thirty seconds later, England felt his pocket buzz. He narrowed his eyes at the daft younger nation, but a smile tipped onto his face, and he went for the door. When he felt the absurd warmth and weight drape itself along him; a single spurring kiss to the back of his neck, the spot below his ear.

Husky whisper. The impression of strong, large hands on England's hips. A single lone tremor through his body, but the shiver left him weak at the knees with its force.

"I want you."

And then America reached past to pull the door open, the thumbtack sharp expression being masked with a carefree and sunny beam. There was still a touch of his hand at England's waist, which made England's blood cool and heat up in a rapid and unseemly succession; just the ghost of America's palm. The unseen, but felt touches lingered on England constantly as they made their journey to the airport. Brush of fingers, gently steering England by the elbow out of the way of somebody, constant need to ruffle England's hair. By the time America gripped him into a hug at the airport, England curved to lean his ear on America's chest, the way America's heart pawed, hammering at America's ribs, allowed the fact America did indeed want him to settle into England's bones with an ache. But, then, America was gone, waving wildly and smiling wildly and gone.

England fished his phone from his pocket when he regained his senses and checked it as it buzzed again, and the two messages stood side by side on the screen;

_im here_  
_i miss u already :(_

Grimacing, and cheeks bright, England shoved the phone into his pocket, and stalked away with strange and shuffly steps, still musing. Honest as ever, America kept to his suggestion, bothering England with phonecalls, texts, and e-mails as often as he could, and England gradually fell into the rhythm of returning them with almost the same excitement. It took awhile, but he finally made the first move and sent a text before America did, a single forlorn, _I miss you_, which was replied to instantly with a garbled, lovey-dovey mess of deliberately mangled spelling and approximated heart symbols.

England jabbed in America's number (he'd never had the inclination to add America to speed-dial, and it was nice remembering the number perfectly again and again) "Hey England!" America sounded tired. "You need any-"

"I'm scared I'll just use sex to try and control you again." England squeezed his eyes shut, but this was certainly easier than face-to-face; much easier. There was a long, and considering pause from America.

"Baby, I'm just in Congress right now," America laughed, mildly delighted by England's urge to talk about something, but at the same time, more amused by the fact it occurred during an inopportune moment. Classic. "And I think my boss is going to take my phone away," He sounded a trifle annoyed, and spoke up. "However," America's voice took on an extremely serious air. "As this call is of the highest diplomatic importance, and if I hang up on you, the UK will declare war on the United States, I best be allowed to go right now, and I mean right now, right now- -oh lovely, now England- will you get out of the way, do you know who I am? Yeah, n- -wait I am so not the coffee bitch, fuck off," An irritated snarl of air, and then America changed ears. "Now that that's all sorted out..."

"Forget it!" England hung up with a rapid press of the keys, but his phone buzzed insistently in his hand and he picked up. "Hello, Arthur Kirk-"

"You wouldn't do that, Art," America said with a confidence England didn't feel. "How long have you been bottoming just so you-"

"You need to work!"

"What? They're just squabbling like children." America yawned. "As usual."

"And you're meant to be mature," That idea suddenly felt ludicrous. "And force them to be sensible about matters."

"It's exhausting telling them for the twenty millionth time that most of me needs some major reforms." America changed ears again. "I miss UN meetings where I get to be the one being stupid."

"You're not stupid America, despite the great effort you put in trying to be," England muttered, his finger idly playing with the tassels on a pillow he was holding firmly in his lap. "I miss you."

"I miss you too," America paused. "Now tell me about what's bothering you, before we turn into a soppy, squidgy old couple."

"Sex is used for domination; I don't want to dominate you." England said it as levelly as he could. Words clipped and clean.

"Well then you won't." It truly was that simple, as far as America was concerned.

"Exactly," England paused. "I'll always bottom."

"You wanna do that?" America sounded skeptical.

England remained completely silent, no reply present, prepared or acceptable. He blinked, jaw-slacked, and then shut it with a clip. Waiting for America to interrupt as he always would, and spare him this question, but the idiot boy had decided to be patient, for once, and that was so incredibly, so incredibly inconvenient.

"Yes." England finally snapped out, a little firmly, voice carrying a clear bravado England didn't feel.

America sighed out thoughtfully, and then smiled anyways, switching ears with the phone. "Kay, then." He could hear England's little choke on the other side of the phone and choked on his own laugh; England would never forgive that. "Hey kitten," America pushed his glasses up. "I should probably get back to congress before there's a civil war between the east and west coast rappers or something, but I'll phone you tonight- and I promise I'll never call you kitten again, right, love ya', bye kitten bye!"

England raged at the dial-tone for almost a minute, before throwing the phone onto the couch beside him with more strength than strictly necessary and tossing himself down after it, half-sprawled. He wrapped his arms about the carefully embroidered pillow, and huffed into it, before the huff turned into a sigh, and then an almost silent hum. There was a strange vibration by his ear, and he rolled in confusion, before scrambling for his phone.

_im here_

"No," England muttered, flopping a single arm down over his eyes. "You're across the Atlantic, in Congress, a trillion miles away from me." He groaned, phone slipping from his fingers. "Oh hell."

England shut his eyes; America was frustrating upbeat and sure of himself. All talk. England gave a half-moan at the sudden weight on his ribcage; the stupid boy. The natural reaction to the melancholy settling on his bones was probably the lukewarm, and cheap wine he'd popped over the channel to buy. France produced cheaper wine. There was no denying that. England rolled off the couch, shoving his phone down the back of it, and both England and the pillow dropped to the floor with a flop. Gracefully, England got to his feet and strolled to the pantry, and came back half an hour later, feet slurring and flopping on the couch cradling the half-empty bottle. Had England not been a nation, he probably would have surrendered his overt use of alcohol for the sake of his liver, however, aside from disabling headaches, and occasionally blood poisoning, there weren't any ramifications. As such, there were no issues with drowning in drink every once in awhile.

It was merely rotten luck that not only did he miss his meeting with his boss, but that when he rolled off the couch, head groggy, America was looking unsurprised over him.

"When... when did you get here?"

"About five minutes ago," America's left brow was raised; why didn't he have the grace to at least pretend he found this surprising. America passed England his phone. "Your boss called."

"Christ." England scrolled through the missed calls and then his inbox with growing self-loathing.

"It's'kay, I said you were sick." America looked sheepish. "He totally thinks you're getting lucky right now though, cuz I can't fake a British Accent."

England stared up at America.

"You didn't try did you?" England's gaze dropped to the scroll of messages from both his boss and America.

_Use protection; the cabinet suspects the US has an economic infection._  
_Nevermind. America picked up. We apologize for disturbing you._  
_England, I'm going to have to consider this a matter of national security if you don't contact us._  
_hay :) landing now_  
_England, is everything quite alright?_  
_am flying ovr xxxxxx_  
_England you're late, is everything alright?_  
_by that i mean im visiting u ;)_  
_congress =/= progress am so blowin dis gig_  
_missu_  
_u kk?_  
_lol = lots of love _  
_i do love you_  
_I'll see you at 12, then England? We need to discuss the latest reforms to education._  
_soz, r u mad?_  
_bby? u ther?_  
_i 3 U...K lol!_

He raised his eyes back to America who smiled brightly at him. "Chamomile?" America was already strolling into the kitchen in search of England's hangover remedy tea. A single swipe to the kettle, and England tottered in after him, leaning against the doorframe and fighting the urge to rub at his forehead.

Instead he watched as America snagged two cups from the cupboard, a bag of tea from the box labeled **Tea The Hero Knows How to Use AKA. Teabags, you tosser** and some instant coffee. Seeing America grimace as he dumped some of the coffee into his cup - he'd often complained about the coffee at England's house - and carefully pop England's teabag into his cup gave England several strong emotions. The first was the desire to give in and ask Italy for a coffee machine, and the second was the strain of his heart splitting in two at the sweet, touching, intimate closeness between them.

England sighed, and heavily slunk forward, curling his arms about America's waist and just nuzzling his back. Downright snuggling into his warmth.

"You must feel awful, Art," America briefly curled his fingers on England's, rubbing over the loose grip England had round him, before returning to preparing the tea, unperturbed as he dragged England lightly left and right, the Englishman swaying and following after him.

"Mhhhm." England hummed, the sound murmuring about America's back, and America laughed in a casual, breezy way, just an extension of his smile, and finished setting up for the tea. "I can't ask you to give up your independence."

"Nope." America pulled the kettle off before the boil, having been primly informed tea should never be made on the boil. He didn't want to scald the coffee's flavour either.

"Wouldn't taking you be asking you to give some of that up?"

"Nope." America poured the water into the coffee first, and then the tea. "You'd need to rape me to take my independence."

England sighed into his back, then began talking in a strange mutter that picked up in volume. America couldn't make out the start, the quiet words muffled by his own back, but once England got into the flow of it, it became clear. "-Spain too, him and France especially. They'd beg and moan and it'd hurt them so why isn't it about power? Even when it was willing there was such a thrill from being in that position over them. Alfie, I can't do that to you, I just can't," England buried a little closer. "Feel so helpless under you, and it feels good and I can't, want to, it's good but I feel..." England might have continued but it was muffled into America's back, and America covered England's hands with his again, rubbing soothingly. "I said I'd never feel so helpless again, but I can't do it to you, my darling, my darling, I can't, I can't, I can't."

"Beautiful," America interrupted gently. "I'm sorry for making you feel helpless."

"Don't be, it was..." America felt England swallow thickly. Even nervously chuckle. "It feels good with you."

"Not as good as it should be, though," England shuffled slightly, and tried to pull his hands away. "Right?"

"H-hush," England growled. "You're fine love."

"I'm not." America retorted, whipping around so fast the cups chinked together as he brushed them. He pulled England flushedly against his chest, and rubbed along England's shoulders to keep himself from shaking England like a leaf, or maybe just shaking like a leaf in general. "You shouldn't have to forfeit your feelings, your needs for mine." America stared at England steadily.

"You feeling good is enough for me." England replied. "That makes me feel... good." He turned a delicate shade of pink, and America brushed it with his fingertips.

"You deserve to feel amazing." America tipped England's face up. Leaned forward and pressed his mouth against England's - corner to corner, askew, frowning slightly, and it was so sad, England almost recoiled. Instead he remained still and tried to return it, but already America was pulling away. "You keep treating your own desires like nothing - I know you want to have me writhing wantonly under you, don't you?"

"I can just ride y-"

"Oh fuck no," America twisted to punch his fist down on the counter and the tea and coffee jumped in their cups. "Fuck no, England," America ground it out, blue eyes flared with an electric but bottled fury. "It's not about, like, whether you're looking down at me or you on your hands and knees-" England could hear a half-whine in the way America said the last part, and blinked curiously, almost amused. America was battling with his libido; it wasn't just England. But America was already moving on, pushing the lust out of his voice with an almost bored frustration, dismissive really. As though it was an annoyance. "It's about the fact you see having my dick rammed up you as submission."

England's colour spread at America's graphic, tactless way of putting it. Penetration had been a cleaner term.

"And it's not!" America finally yelled, shutting his eyes like a child having a tantrum. "If it was about submission you wouldn't want to do me!"

England shook his head. "W-who said I did?" He scoffed, shaking America's determination away like rain. "And if I even did, wouldn't it be clear I would be trying to exert control over you through it?"

"I know you do," America scowled, eyes ferocious. "And you don't, because if you did, you wouldn't worry about it. It's a Catch-22. If you can think you might, then you're probably not. Okay I'm not really making sense but-" America pushed England's head back up, forcing England to look at him, as England tried to look down at the floor. "You've spent how long making yourself feel like shit and vulnerable and horrible and why?" England's gaze tipped to the side, and America actually growled until England looked at him. "Because you don't want to treat me like that."

"I can't treat you like that, I can't-"

"You're unhappy, because part of you," America jabbed a finger at England's chest. "Knows I'm right. It knows it's not wrong of you to want to be inside of me!" America huffed for breath, briefly panting mid-shout, and England tried to wriggle away but America's other hand held him fast. "You said it feels good too, well, why?" America watched him, and then trailed off into unneeded clarification. "When I'm inside you, why does it also feel good? Is it just a physical thing?" America gave a tremor.

"Of course not!" England snarled, furious that his quickened emotions had brought a dampness to his eyes. He scrubbed at it with the back of his wrist and glowered at America. "If it was just a physical thing I'd have no issues taking you whenever I wanted!"

"Told you so!" America beamed triumphantly. "There is more to sex than taking pleasure from it! That's my point!" America's smile remained there, but it was still tinged with anger. "We are in a relationship, so there is a whole hell of a lot more to it than just physical shit."

And suddenly, England just felt impossibly tired. Just impossibly exhausted. Too tired to object, or fight, or do anything but stare emptily up at America. America grabbed him by the shoulders and yelled in his face, the wild, frightened, but violently adoring look in his eyes making England feel even limper and heavier.

"That's why you want to be in me; that's why I want you in me, for christ's sake!" America curled over, leaning his head against England, hands now gripping England's shoulders limply. "Because it's not about giving and taking pleasure, it's... it's about being together, and... and making love." America gave a short whine, pulled back, and met England's eyes. "I love that word for it, because it's true. It's like... like building a house with you." England's brows furrowed in weak confusion.

"If you or I spent the whole time thinking about beating the other unconscious with a brick, or kept trying to seize control or whatever, and didn't ever just work together, we wouldn't be able to build ourselves a home. That's making love. You. Me. Together. Making love. Making somewhere safe for us to just... just be together."

America really had the most endless, beautiful eyes sometimes; all thrown wide open. England's hand numbly came up to brush at America's face, as if not quite convinced America wasn't a mirage, or composed of fog and cobwebs.

"You..."

"No," America pressed his face towards England's hand. "Us."

"Us..." England murmured, voice like weakened, pale tea. England curled against America, placing them pulse to pulse. Their bodies fitting together like stacked cups, jigsaw pieces, bricks.

"You have to feel safe and at home when we're together." America breathed, voice tickling England's neck, and making the hairs at the England's nape flutter with his warm, tangy breath. "You have to feel safe and at home regardless of who tops or bottoms; I just can't-" And America couldn't explain what he couldn't do, only gasp out, half-wailing. "If- I just, if you-" America pressed even closer to England, pushing at their places in the world, the edges of the cups and jigsaws and bricks. Testing them. "I love you, so, please."

England remained quiet, but not in an alarming way. Just something that was. Instead he coiled close, and contently, arms wrapped about America, and occasionally nuzzled at the taller nation. "Tired." England mumbled once, hooking both arms about America's neck and all but hanging off him. "My head hurts." England yawned in irritation, and exhausted affection. He stretched against America, standing up in his tiptoes so he could link both arms, wind them together and loop his fingers in America's hair, half-tugging.

America gave a half-chuckle, and plucked England up neatly in his arms. England's hands dropped back to settle on America's shoulders. "Is my ickle baby tired?" America giggled playfully, and rubbed his nose against England's. "Did he haff too much to drink, aww poor bubu." England swatted America on the shoulder, nipping him lightly on the jaw.

"Oh I am far too tired to tell you properly, but do shut up." With that England nestled against America - not too unlike a small child. America shifted away from the counter, adjusted England in his arms very slightly, and England looked up from America's shoulder to blink blearily at him. With a twitch of his shoulders that probably was meant to be a shrug, England settled his head back down and wrapped his arms about America's waist with the same clinginess as a koala bear, or particularly precocious little child.

"Ho ho watanay," America hummed under his breath as he gave the abandoned drinks a once-over, before carrying the rapidly fading England out of the kitchen. England gave a purr, and snuggled closer, and America laughed breathlessly. "Ho ho watanay, ho ho watanay, ki-yo-ki-na," England cracked a single eyelid open and rolled the eye at America. "Ki-yo-ki-na." Given the choice to lugging England upstairs (not a particularly difficult feat) and pouncing on the nearby couch to maximize cuddling time, America was very manly, and very decisive. He settled gently down on the couch, readjusting England who without much promptly splayed out across America with only a slight yawn and feline nuzzle.

America repeated the lullaby, tracing a circle in the wingtip of England's left shoulderblade, and leaning back against the arm-rest. A sudden whirr against his hip, and America squirmed to pull England's phone from England's pocket. He glanced once at the message sender - England's boss - and flicked the phone off, reaching to the ground to toss it under the couch. There, a little peace and quiet. Warm too, with England snuffling like a kitten on him (all claws during the day, but absolutely adorable when asleep, and curled up so tiny!) and not very heavy. The jetlag slunk into America. Maybe very heavy, definitely very warm. America stretched, feeling the simple, honey-like warmth coil in his toes; they curled.

England was so tangible against his hip and warm along him. Pretty to look at. But a few seconds eyes closed wouldn't be too long. Nope.

America gave another yawn, shifting and England pushed down on him, giving a growl in his sleep, eyebrows knitting in a sulky, sleepy furrow. Absolutely too cute. A few seconds wouldn't be anything.

However, when America tipped his head back, eyes fluttering open and fixing on the ceiling, it was laced with the amber of the sunset. Huh. Very long seconds.

America gazed down his front at the sleepy puddle of blond hair, sweater vest, and lightly rising, gently falling. He stretched out, one hand carding through England's hair, as he felt a very confused timezone in his body - which had finally decided it would just knock America out - pull him back to sleep very clearly.

The next time, it was England who pulled himself out of sleep, cracking his neck with a quick twist, and sitting up on America. The lad was pooled out messily over the couch, mouth open (to catch flies? To chew on dream-burgers?) and one hand falling out of England's hair as England sat up. England slid his hands forward on America's chest, cupping America's jaw and leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the lips. America woke under it, wriggling and shuffling slightly to get a nicer angle.

"Sleeping beauty." England smirked, pulling his hands back to America's sternum to better support his weight as he stretched, as if pulled towards the ceiling by a single thread. America followed the pull and taunt of England's body, protest forgotten on his lips, instead watching the way the muscles clenched and unbunched, blue eyes tracing along England like fingers. England glanced down at him, a contented but alert grin on his face. America seemed to have settled completely into the timezone; England glanced towards the window where the foggy early morning was lightening. It was still dark, but the morning would be quick on the heels of the hour. "So," England glanced back down at America. England shifted to dig one of his legs between America's and the other nation obliged by spreading his slightly; England promptly rubbed his leg against America. "More than a month."

America wriggled, half-squirming towards England, half-away, and in result only squirming and going nowhere. He groaned lightly. "You sure?"

"Mhm. How patient you've been," England's expression sharpened with heightened alertness, and the sweet flood of adrenaline and other heady cocktail chemicals. "My dear," England grazed a single hand down America's side, and with a whump, America pushed England back.

"Dude," America tried to rub the blush off his cheeks, and hunted about on the floor for his glasses which had dropped off sometime he couldn't recall. Settling them on the bridge of his nose, America looked England up and down. "Are you sure? You wanna?" America squinted, searching feverishly through England's eyes for a trace of reticence. No luck; only a feral sea of lust. America sighed. "You," He settled back on the couch, "And me," He pulled England back over him, and then let his hands rest against England's forearms, curling about the subtle muscles. "Are going to have a love making session." America said it with a cheeky enthusiasm, bright teeth grinning up at England.

"I thought that was implicit," England had the attitude enough to roll his eyes and kissed at America's neck, purring contently. All sharp claws and friendly-like growls; feline flexible and warm and silky graceful against America. "Fucking hell, almost two months without you, you drive me to insanity boy-"

"You're topping." America said it firmly, and their eyes met. Hard against each other. They waited, both hearing the lack of discussion or argument in America's voice.

England nodded shakily. "Yes, I suppose I am," He, suddenly clumsy, leant down to kiss America's forehead, and then pulled away like he'd been shot, or tried to shoot at America himself. Eyes wide. "If I-"

"Don't worry about it, sweetheart," America dazzled England with the most sugary smile he'd seen in awhile, even from America. England could feel the diabetes he'd just contracted and responded with an appropriate scowl. "Ay, I trust you, and Bee? I'll watch your back."

"Well then." England found himself at a loss for words, and then flooded with relief when America pushed himself up to kiss away the awkward silence. England pulled away suddenly, fussing.

"Doll?"

"I'm thirsty." England growled, annoyed with his own body. Dehydrated of all things. Having stopped there, other things happened upon England's mind. "Come to say the lubricant is upstairs," England stretched. "And the condoms," England eyed America. "You may have forgotten the intricacies of bottoming since I'm certain you've not done had to often do it, but as I might remind you, you will be wanting lubrication." America flushed, squawking and pulling both him and England to their feet. "You wanted this." England reminded America, heading towards the kitchen. "I'll meet you in the bedroom, you need anything?"

"You?" America cracked a cheesy grin, and England gave an unimpressed huff and stomped over to the sink to fish out a glass he'd used earlier. He could hear America- was America skipping upstairs? Bloody hell. England tossed the glass of water back, and quickly poured out another. Swallowed it swiftly. Poured another. Drank half of it, before placing the glass in the sink with tired, lead-like fingers; a complete attack of the nerves. Regardless, England darted upstairs, hurriedly clawing his way into his room to find Alfred pulling his shirt off. England could have sworn he'd just had a drank, so why was his mouth dry like a persimmon now?

America shimmied the shirt off his arms, and it dropped into one of his hands, and England followed the smooth parabola as America tossed the shirt towards the corner of the room.

"There's a place for that," England commented, unable to spit anything else out and America smiled brightly at England. "And it's not the-"

"There's a place for you, yanno," America cut over England, scooting over slightly on England's double-bed, and poking at the newly vacated space, before fixing his glasses which had been left askew by the shirt. "And it's definitely not way way over there away from me."

England could only shiver in the middle of the floor, and with a patient, affectionate expression, America slid off the bed and padded over to stand by England.

"Nerves?" America guessed at, looping his fingers in the hem of England's trousers, pulling England against him. England nodded uncertainly. "D'ya want me?" Green eyes flickered up from where they'd been staring at America's hands, and pressed against blue eyes.

"I'm here."

"Naw," America drawled, relief still pouring across his face, as well as renewed confidence. Nevertheless, he teased. "You're way over there." America leaned forward to press an open-mouthed kiss to the junction between England's shoulder and neck. Hazily, England raised his hands and dropped them against America's bare chest, and America shifted up England's neck. America's hands were already half-scratching, half-stroking at the hollows of England's hips, twitching and shivering to go lower. England quickly slid his own hands to America's hips and rubbed across the plane of his stomach; America's open kiss turned into something more akin to a suck. Boy knew how to use his mouth, and England scraped his hands up America's chest, grazing his nails across America's nipples.

America pulled away with a startled pant, wriggling about, and England just grabbed him, holding him tight against him. "Mr. Kirkland," America's pant turned into a laugh, completely airless, blue eyes flushed, the colour far too bright against his pink face.

England couldn't help but snort very lightly. "Mr. Jones," He made the noise crisp, whereas America had laugh-whined his. England paused, just as he was sliding his palms down America's back. "Where are we going with the last names thing?"

"No fucking idea," America giggled as England brushed the small of his back, shutting both eyes with a low noise of approval. "Seemed like a good thought at the time."

"Idiot." When had England quite reached America's ass, he peered at America, fingers loosening, and America cracked an eye open.

"Come on," America whined, and, slightly agitated, rolled his hips against England. "Y-You love me anyways." The stutter resulted more from England's grip on America's hips, fingers brushing, and America moaned clunking forward happily into England's hold. England twisted awkwardly, but determinedly to kiss America hotly on the mouth, and America was giggling, laughing and moaning into it. America took a step back; England followed. America opened his mouth ever so slightly, well aware England would take the initiative- and there he was, deepening the kiss right against America. America took another step back, and England continued to follow, applying more pressure and force to the kiss.

The backs of America's legs hit the bedside, and England, still moving forward, toppled America back onto the bed. Half-sprawled on America, and America half-sprawled on the bed, they pulled reluctantly apart to assess the situation. "You dirty sneak," England muttered. "You got us to the bed."

"Like a boss." America snickered, squirming up and back onto the bed. "Come on then." America stretched out on England's bed, peering at England the whole time, and reading his reaction. It wouldn't be particularly hard to misread England's pounce, and it'd be even harder to misunderstand when England all but shoved his tongue into America's mouth with a needy groan. "Oh." America finally managed, gasping for air, head tipping back to look at the pillow. "I put the stuff there."

England followed America's gaze for a few seconds to the bottle America had left on the pillow, as well as the hastily seized bundle of condoms.

"Expecting a busy night, then?" England licked a stripe up America's neck, and could feel America's breath hitch under him in little jumps of his ribcage.

"H-hey, if you don't use them all," America let out a heavy exhalation. "I'll use 'em."

"Waste not, want not," England purred approvingly, then laughed, the sound somewhere between nerves, amusement and simple reaction to America's bravado. "Oh Christ." America could hear the rising panicky tone in England's voice and propped himself up on his elbows. His head was all foggy with desire, very foggy, but America shook it off.

"Sweetie?"

England looked off to the side. "Last person I-" America wanted to interrupt, it probably would have been better to, but he was full curious by now. "Hong Kong." America's eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing, merely pondering the name. When England tried to get off him, America was torn out of his thoughts and clung to England, pushing the taller man into the curve of his shoulder, and suppressing his own automatic wail of displeasure.

"I'm not Hong Kong." America grumbled. "I am the very, very, very independent America who is no less independent regardless of position and you," America could feel England breathing heavily at his shoulder, and carded his fingers into England's hair. "Are the very, very, very awesome boyfriend who is going to be making some real sweet hot loving with me tonight, which is totally a team effort, and you are real and sweet and hot and awesome and therefore," Well it made sense to America. "It is not wrong, or empirical of you to be inside me."

"I think you mean imperial..."

"Honey!" America huffed, pouting, and England pulled back, smiling tentatively.

"I know." England brushed a hand to America's face with not enough sexy, and too much tenderness, but America didn't really have any real complaints about it. England stared steadily at America's eyes. "I know." He repeated, making it clear it was more than just the matter of correcting America.

There was a small oasis from movement; just long breaths, the slight grey-light of the sun peering just slightly into the sky, America quiet and understanding, England just breathing through it. Still, warm, pleasantly crowded with the way their breaths suddenly seemed so very loud, even though they were hardly panting at all.

England leaned down, kissing America, fingers curling and insistently brushing at any scrap of skin he could find. The moment snapped, and movement exploded from them; England hastily swiping and clawing, pulling at America's jeans. Despite the rush, England still managed to have them yanked about and kicked off the bed before America could properly process the difficulty he was having with England's own shirt. Meanwhile, America thought with amusement, England somehow peeled off America's socks using his feet.

"Babe," America growled, holding England still for a few seconds, in order to yank both England's cardigan, and shirt over his head. England looked a bit puzzled for a few seconds, hair more disheveled than usual, sticking up at the strangest of angles. America slid his own hands down England's chest, face sunny. "That is so much better."

They met eyes for a few second, before America ground against England.

"Now." America demanded.

"America I still need to get my jeans off."

"No-oww," America protested, pouting as he nevertheless began to attempt to work England's trousers off. England shifted back, leaning on the pillows and America finally yanked England's trousers off before promptly latching onto his boxers and trying to get those off.

"Eager, boy," England shifted again, letting America proceed anyway. America looked at him with wide round blue eyes, and England tipped his head in confusing. "Love?"

"You 'kay?" America tipped his head as well.

England shrugged, and America rolled away with a sigh. "H-hey!" America didn't say anything, merely snuggled his face into the bunched covers, and England sat up, jostling at America's back. "Alfred!" England hissed. America ignored him, and England gritted his teeth, scowling, until he noticed the pale tremor of America's body. "Oh." England stopped shoving at America, and instead began stroking reassuring circlets and figures of eight into America's smooth back. "What's wrong?"

America rolled over with an angry swiftness. "If you don't wanna then just don't!" America's eyes were a little too bright, and England instinctively cupped America's face in his palms, despite America wriggling and trying to pull his head away. "Am I the only person who can just do what they mean?"

It didn't make much sense, America's actual words, but the meaning was clear; _don't force yourself, I hate that. _

Everything America had said meant nothing if England was still forcing himself to act outside of what he wanted, and was comfortable doing. It wasn't better, even if England pounded America until the bed broke. The problem wasn't where and who and how, the problem was always going to be tied up in the why.

England leaned forward, pushing America back ever so gently with his fingers, and settled over America. America blinked several times. "I want you." England mumbled, the honest remark spilling down between them, and America narrowed his eyes, wrinkling his nose to push his glasses back up with a rabbit twitch of his nose.

"If you dare treat yourself with disrespect, then I'll-" England pushed his hand against America's mouth, keeping him quiet. The silly boy; England didn't need the reassurance, though granted it was nice. It would be nicer if America could stop talking.

"Oh I'm sorry, sunshine," England smirked. "I keep forgetting your grasp of language isn't so good." America frowned under England's hand, a single brow arching. "In other words," England leaned down to brush by America's ears, knowing America was paying far more attention to the sultry tone than the words. Really, England could have recited pop goes the weasel, and America's breath probably would have hitched just like that anyway. "I'd love to," England licked America's ear, before sliding down America's face, nipping slightly at the taunt curve of America's neck, and then kissing at his collarbone. "Carry on with fucking you." England's hands slid up America's thighs, pulling at the boxers (tasteless) and half-nuzzling, half-nibbling at the smooth plane of America's stomach. A single half-nip to the jut of America's hipbones, and America bucked under him, whining almost shrilly.

He grazed America with the palm of his hand through the boxers, and America jerked sharply into his hand, trying to rub against him.

England bit down harder on America's hipbone. God, did America squeak? The last time England had heard America actually squeak was when England had bit his ear that one time. England yanked the boxers away, too lazy to do more than let them pool about America's knees. America shifted, pulling both legs up, open and exposed as England licked down from America's smooth abdomen to between America's legs. Shuffling, and kicking one leg out of the underwear, leaving them coiled about just one of his ankles, America looped the free leg over England's. And moaned.

England could feel the ripple going through America, as America threw his head back, and just moaned, long, insistent, toe-tinglingly arousing. He brought one hand up to grip America firmly by the shaft and took America into his mouth, licking at the underside and felt America twitch under him, legs shivering. America pulled his legs a little further up, and England's fingers dug lightly into America's ass. A groan, tempered with a breathy giggle. And then America threw one of his hands back, the other settling in England's hair and just looping through the threads.

England slid further down America, swallowing, and glancing up as America shifted slightly. He could feel the pants shaking through America.

"Nooo-oww-www..." America drawled out, face flushed. Not eloquent, but demanding. America shifted about some more, and then England felt America shoving- was that three condoms? Okay, how well-endowed did America think England was. America writhed, hips spasming from the restrained jerks, too distracted to think anything of England's light chuckle, except the way it felt with England's mouth wrapped around his cock.

England pulled away panting, eyes hazed, and he looked up at America. "Alfie," He said very patiently and slowly, trying to ignore the ache and twinge, actual pain of restraint versus desire. "You need to be ready." He stated it like it's obvious, but America only gave a daredevil groan of challenge; _I am ready_. England sighed, and dug two fingers up into America's ass without any preamble and America gave a startled shout, England pulling them away as quickly as he could from America's spasming body. He settled across America, waiting for the blue eyes to clear (blown wide with a startled pain, and absolutely lost) when they did, fixing on England, England brushed his cheek to America's.

"Okay, you're right." America huffed. He gave a swipe at the pillow, and with shivery fingers passed the bottle of lube to England.

"Word of advice," England kissed America, laughing softly into his mouth, and America frowned against his lips, before giving a half-laugh back. Unable to be truly in bad humour. He still glared at England when England pulled away. "I'm always right."

"Which is why you needed a peptalk to top me, huh, kitten?" America poked his tongue out, and England glared back at America, but flicking open the bottle of the lube and warming it between his hands as he did so. He leaned back, kneeling between America's legs, and smirked; kitten? Well, he'd get his own back soon enough. America wriggled against England, fighting to contain his smile. He _knew_ calling England that would result in a sexy smirk, score one for America, who is way smarter than he looks, thank you very much. America paused in his self-congratulations when England probed at him with a single finger. Not as bad as before, especially with the slightly warm slickness added to it.

"Kinda nice actually," Had America said that aloud? England shifted above America, getting a better angle and slowly withdrew the finger. Then it was back. Definitely nice.

And it was _England_ doing this. America groaned, trying to raise his legs even more, and expose more of himself.

"Aren't you a natural, kitten?" England snorted, watching America moan contently. America peeked one eye open and narrowed it at England. England's voice and expression softened. "You're doing well, really," England murmured, well-aware that America was not the type to often bottom, if at all, and whilst sometime in that several centuries, it must have happened, it wouldn't have been recently, and it's hard to be in that position after a long break. He really doubted America even had much more than enthusiasm on his side. America swallowed back a moan. That and possibly a very sensitive ass, England's eyebrows raised. "Two now." England warned, and as soon as America had sucked in a bracing breath, England swatted his side with his spare hand. "Breathe, relax; if you tense up like that it'll be ghastly for you, dear."

England waited for America to relax somewhat, before continuing. America twitched, but otherwise his breathing didn't alter too much. "T-that's not so bad."

"Because you're being properly prepared." England sniffed primly. "I don't want you in anymore pain than is strictly necessary."

"That's sweet of you." America beamed up at England, and hitched the leg not half-twined with England's up a little more, and bit his lip. England blinked down at him, green eyes a little puzzled; whilst the mechanics of preparation were known - England had certainly picked up on enough tricks in his relationship with America, the impatient and enthusiastic - he'd rarely applied them to anyone except himself. Not that America was bad at preparation, no, only perpetually raring to go. "Mhm, more." America purred, twisting his head to the side, flush hot on his face. Always ready to go.

England brushed at America's side, won over with patient affection, and a warning expression his green eyes. America bucked very lightly, and England pushed a third finger in, bringing the other hand down to stroke at America's cock. As predicted, America's breath jumped quickly and his entire body tensed. The tension only made it worse and soon America was whimpering lightly. England hushed, kissed at America's hips, and continued to stroke at America to distract him.

"Relax, little one," England breathed. "Sssh, ssh." America tensed again, and then melted. Muscles no longer trilling around England's fingers quite so spasmodically. A few long pants.

"R-remind me to go easier on y-you next time." He stuttered, eyelashes fluttering. America's muscles loosened, tightened again suddenly, but the tension was gone just as quickly as the overeager nation calmed down.

"You're fine." England replied, slowly wriggling and stretching with the fingers, not in and out so much as just gently pushing at America's walls and making space. "You're doing great, just breathe," America gave England a mildly annoyed look, but a particularly resistant push, and America gritted his teeth, leaning into the soft words as his back arched, a slight cry pulled past his lips. "Just great, you're doing just great, darling."

America's back arched slightly more, the smooth concave tightening, and groaned suddenly. England's eyes flashed up at America, watching the movement and America's tightly closed eyes. Wriggled his fingers, and America gave another moan; England pressed in, and America's moan tremored. There, England mused, and gave another gentle jab, America still moaning, the noise rising in pitch and volume. Sharpening. England pressed even more firmly, and America's moan transformed into a pitchy cry, this time loosely strung into a word;

"Nooo-oow-owww."

England grabbed at the condoms America had all but flung at him earlier, fingers withdrawing to America's disappointed whingy sniffle. Green and blue eyes met, uncertainly, England's fingers fumbling for a few moments, and America curving towards England, pulling both knees up as best he could. And there, in America's eyes, the flash of sudden fear. England almost fled the room at the sight of it. Vulnerable, helpless, more naked than England had seen America in a very long time; like that time England had caught America scrubbing his hands down to the blood after the second world war. Like their first time. Like their first kiss. Like their confession. Like something untouchably, unspeakably innocent.

"Do you want this?" England finally asked, shielding his eyes by curling forward, letting his hair hide his expression. Trying to disguise how quickly, rushingly his heart was going. The shape of the fear eclipsing and obstructing his chest.

"O-of course I do." America retorted, piecing together England's words after a long pause.

"No, really." England swallowed, the obstruction crawling into his throat.

"I love you."

England stared at America, head snapping up so quickly, that America could only wonder that he should have had whiplash. America was unable to process the exposure in England's face. The way he realized it was a mirror of his own features.

"Oh god." America breathed. "Oh god, oh god, oh god," America pulled himself onto his elbows, shivering and flinching where their skin touched. England collapsed against him, shaking from head to toe. Their shivers seemed to fit together with perfect, puzzling precision. "I love you."

"I love you." England bit it out limply, weakly, but with an agonizing sincerity.

"I love you." America repeated. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here."

They clung together, nuzzling each scrap of skin, breathing in the other's scent thoroughly. Drowning as best they could. "I'm here." England mumbled, and kissed the corner of America's mouth, then the arch of his cheeks.

"I'm here." America replied, cupping England's face, linking the kisses up, matching them against one another. "I want you, and you will never conquer me, and you will never want to, because I want you."

"I want you." England breathed.

"Us." America rested his forehead against England's, the fear evaporating, and condensing somewhere on the ceiling in a single shady shape, sticking there and arching over them with suspicious, watchful eyes.

"Us." The fear dripped, pooling about their ankles, and England took one of America's shyly in his hand, brushing it with the pad of his thumb.

"Gonna' make some sweet loving," America hummed. "Some sweet sweet loving with Artie. Gonna' make some sweet sweet sugary loving with England. Oh yeah. Gonna' make some sweet loving tonight."

"Oh do shut it." England laughed, shyness peeling away with each little dorky word America made. England leaned forward, kissing America, as he slid in. A little resistance, then some more, and America twisted away. Hissing with apprehension. "Little one..." England mumbled. "Breathe, breathe." America followed the encouragement, breathing in the smooth rhythm.

"I love you."

"I love you more."

America glowered at England challengingly, before England slipped forward the last little inch, and he gasped. "Equally." The word hiss-popped from his mouth with a quirk of consonants.

"Equally." England agreed, squeezing his eyes shut, and waiting. Just waiting. Waiting for America's breath to settle. Waiting for his heart to settle. Waiting for calm to settle over them. But it didn't. America's breath hitched and span in odd circles. England's heart drove its nails into England's chest. And calm evaporated onto the ceiling, burnt off with a mixture of sweat and a sudden, urgent, harsh desire, tangled up and bitten off with love. The morning broke, and their voices broke, America keening so violently, you could have mistaken it for angrily, except for the slurring flick, the tilt into a moan at the end. England choked on his own scream. They collapsed together with a single exhausted pant, before creating a disjointed mumble of gasps.

England curled next to America, pulling away, and gasping into the pillow for a few seconds, body sticky, but unaware of anything except his extremities; where they connected with America. Finally he twisted, turning to look at America.

America laughed, the sound an auditory grin. "That was," America paused, emphasizing. "So." America laughed again, giggling slightly at the end. "_Awesome_."

The calm condensed on the ceiling, dripping onto them, and settling into England's bones, across America's skin. England laughed. Just laughed, rolling onto America, and clinging to him; everything was okay. Everything was just, most definitely, okay.

* * *

**May your quills be ever sharp.**


End file.
